by Julie Miller
He’d seen enough to know the truth. This was more than the routine search-and-retrieval mission he’d been hired to carry out.
This was personal.
“You haven’t got Mr. Smith with you to protect you here.” Antonio pounded his fist on the desk, rattling the phone and computer, sending papers flying. “So answer the damn question!”
But his boss had been a survivor for far too long to let anger get the better of common sense. Momentary fury at the intrusion quickly faded from the icy eyes.
“Yes.”
“You admit it?” His boss gestured to the chair across the desk, but Antonio wasn’t here to sit and make nice. Finding out he was right about having competition on this mission didn’t ease the sting to his pride. Or his concern about his competitor’s tactics. “You’re setting me up to be the scapegoat. There’s been more than one crank phone call, right? You’re terrorizing that woman to throw suspicion onto me so that someone else can fly under the radar and complete the assignment.”
Unmoved by his temper, the boss sat. “The profile does fit your history, doesn’t it?”
“You erased that from my record.”
The boss actually smiled, as if they were sharing an old joke between friends. “Are you telling me you haven’t thought about Brooke Hansford in that way? I can make the paperwork go away, but the urge to take, to control, to own a woman in that way has always been your downfall.”
Antonio ran his tongue around his lips. It wasn’t the virgin herself that had him so frustrated that he was tempted to do violence at the moment. “I have been loyal to you since I was a boy. No one in your organization—no one—has served you better than me. And now you’re setting me up to take the fall so that someone else can get the job done?”
“The method is of his own choosing. I have to admire it, though. There’s nothing like a classic misdirection to divert Miss Hansford and the police’s attention from the job I need to have done.”
“I could have completed the job on my own. I still can.”
Manicured fingers drummed impatiently on the desktop. “The information John Kincaid may have written down could destroy everything it has taken me thirty years to build. There are too many secrets, too much money, at stake. Your pride is of no consideration to me. I’m covering my bets.”
“It wasn’t enough for you to pull the trigger and kill Kincaid?” Antonio finally lowered himself onto the chair, but he perched on the forward edge. “I would have done that for you, too.”
“This is business. That was personal. It was my right.” Antonio detected the slightest quavering in the boss’s tone. The clenched fist tapping the arm of the chair confirmed the rare revelation of honest emotion. “Kincaid betrayed me. He convinced the others that Irina Zorinsky Hansford had to die.”
Antonio laughed before he could consider the wisdom of silence. “Do you know that Brooke wears a charm around her neck that belonged to Irina Hansford?” Antonio pulled the ring of keys from his pocket and licked the attached gold charm with his thumb. A charm marked with a Cyrillic Z. “Just like the one my mother gave me.” Antonio paused. “Is Brooke Hansford my sister? Is that what John Kincaid found out?”
Raw, blinding emotion passed over his boss’s expression. “Irina Zorinsky is dead. Her bloodline died with her. Nothing but getting me that information is any concern of yours.”
The emotion passed as quickly as it had shown itself. The boss got up, buttoning the flawlessly cut jacket and walking to the door to open it. Antonio was being dismissed. “I will see the job done. Whether you get me the information or my other operative does, doesn’t matter.”
It mattered. Antonio was the number-one man here. He’d earned the right to be trusted without question.
But the loyalty that was of such vital importance to him meant nothing to his employer. “I will have whatever Kincaid left for Brooke, and I will bury it forever. The man who brings me that information will be rewarded—handsomely, as usual. The man who fails? Dies.”
THE LANDFILL stunk like death.
The bright summer sun cooked everything the bulldozer had overturned until it stunk even worse.
Still, Atticus pulled off his mask as M.E. Holly Masterson approached. “You got anything for me, Doc?”
Holly pulled off her mask as well and stuffed it into her back jeans pocket. “Not much, I’m afraid. The heat has accelerated decomp, and she’s been here ten days, maybe two weeks. I’d say she’s late fifties, early sixties. I can try to inflate the skin and pull some prints, but don’t hold your breath. If she’s not in AFIS, then that won’t do us any good. And it looks as though she was pretty beat up before she was dumped here. I have a man in the lab who does reconstructive work. We’ll see if we can get enough of her teeth together to identify her through dental records.”
“Is that the cause of death?” He pulled his notebook from his jacket. “You think it’s a domestic situation that got out of control?”
“I can’t guess on the abuse aspect yet. I’ll know more when the autopsy’s done, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure these are the cause of death.” She pulled a small plastic bag from another pocket and showed it to Atticus.
He didn’t need his reading glasses to recognize a pair of bullets. “You pulled these slugs out of the body already?”
“It wasn’t hard. The wound tracks in her chest and head were so degraded, one of them actually fell out when I turned the body.” He handed her the evidence bag and she held them up toward the sunlight. “It’s almost like there’s some kind of chemical reaction going on. The bullets are disintegrating, eroding the surrounding tissue with them. I doubt ballistics will be able to get any striations off them. The caliber will be hard enough to pin down.”
Atticus frowned. “Disintegrating bullets? Are you kidding me?” Bullets exploded, changed shape, fanned out or blunted depending on the size, velocity of the shot and whatever they passed through or hit. Bullets didn’t decompose. “You mean they’re too damaged to get a read on them?”
“I mean they’re melting. Making them damn near impossible to trace.” She tucked the bag safely into her pocket.
“Who the hell has technology like that? Sounds like the CIA or MI6 or, hell, is it a mob hit?” Sometimes, they imported some freaky stuff. This made no sense. The heat and stench and confusion were giving him a damn headache.
“You’re the detective. I’m the scientist. I’ll report what I find, but it’s up to you to turn the information into answers.”
“Thanks.” Leaving the crime scene to Holly and her lab crew, Atticus crunched his way across the layers of trash and filth and new dirt, heading for his SUV parked on the gravel road that circled the fill.
“Detective Kincaid?” Holly had run up behind him. She tucked her short, dark hair behind one ear and took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to like whatever she had to say. “I’ve seen bullets like these before.”
“This murder is connected to another crime scene?”
“Possibly.” Her hazel eyes gleamed with a certain intelligence and hesitation similar to a pair of beautiful green eyes that seemed awfully far away right now.
“Spit it out.”
Holly nodded. “I pulled two untraceable bullets like these from your father’s body. And from a black man named James McBride.”
Everything inside Atticus went on full alert. “The same two bodies you found that number three tattoo on.”
“How do you know…?” She shook her head. The Kincaids weren’t supposed to have details like that. “Never mind. I know those aren’t your cases, but—”
“Thanks, Doc. Include the information in your report and send it to me ASAP. And you’d better send a copy to Kevin Grove.”
With a nod, Holly turned and picked her way back down the slope while Atticus climbed inside his SUV.
He loosened his tie and collar and cranked the A/C. But he was still feeling little relief from the heat. “Damn.”
Nothing about his father�
�s murder made any sense. A string of deaths. No concrete motive. Bullets that couldn’t be traced. Cryptic clues in a secretary’s journal.
He had nothing but questions. Speculation. Possibilities.
He needed something in his world to start making sense. He needed closure. Order. He needed…to talk to Brooke to get his head back in the right place.
Just thinking about hearing her voice eased the tightness in his chest. He pulled his phone off his belt to look up her number, relieved he had that connection to her now. He could already feel her gentleness calming him, her klutziness amusing him, her intelligence amazing him.
He could imagine what another kiss would cost his conscience, but it was a risk he was willing to take. Yes. He wanted to kiss Brooke again. He wanted to take his time about doing it, too. He wanted to be very, very thorough, and then they’d try another kiss her way. They’d try several. And he’d get those legs involved somehow, too.
There was a little chink in the feel-good moment when he saw the voice message from her. There was a big damn chink when he listened to the message. He shifted the SUV into Drive and hit the gas, spinning rocks out behind him until the tires found traction and he shot down the road toward the highway.
“I told her to stay put. I told her I’d pick her up. I told her we’d go to the bank together.”
Talk about not making sense!
What a hell of a time for the shy Miss Hansford to start asserting that inner strength. She’d gotten an e-mail? Had to be from Laughing Man, judging by the little quiver he imagined in her voice. And she was worried about her aunts? Hell. Tony Fierro was with Peggy and Louise all day long. What kind of mess could they have gotten into between breakfast and lunch?
He could easily imagine the worst.
Atticus considered sticking the siren on top of his car, but then that would mean he was truly worried Brooke was getting herself into some kind of trouble, and he wasn’t prepared to go there. He wasn’t ready to think that Brooke could be in danger, that she could be hurt. That Laughing Man…
“Don’t go there.”
Tracks of black rubber followed him onto the highway as Atticus stuck the magnetic light on top of his car and hit the siren on the dashboard.
Chapter Eleven
“Just come quietly with me and get in the car.” Brooke took the bulky blue enamel pot Louise refused to put down and urged her aunts to hurry away from the counter where she’d found them paying their bill.
Thankfully, Wolferman’s Nursery was a sprawling complex with rows of trees, piles of landscaping rock and clay pots of every size and color to mask their quick-paced walk to the parking lot. Brooke was counting on the displays of annuals and perennials and plenty of customers to hide the fact that three women were trying to sneak away from an ex-con stalker.
As soon as she’d seen Tony Fierro wheel a cart crammed with plants and supplies out to his truck in the loading area, Brooke had dashed up to the counter. Shushing their surprise and waiting impatiently while they collected their receipt, Brooke warned them to be quiet and ushered them out of the greenhouse building in the opposite direction.
She’d asked Mirza to drive around the parking lot until she spotted her own blue VW. Then she’d asked him to park in the nearest spot, several yards away, and wait until she returned with her aunts and was safely inside her car.
Brooke offered him a subtle wave of thanks when she spotted him still standing beside his car.
“Who’s your friend?” Louise asked, missing nothing.
Hopping off the curb, Brooke decided to use the key itself to unlock the doors instead of allowing the telltale beep of the remote on her key chain to alert Tony to the fact they were leaving. She shifted the five-gallon pot onto one hip and stuck the key in the lock and turned it. “A classmate of mine from my assertiveness training. He was working with me at the office today and agreed to give me a ride here. He said he’d wait to make sure we got into my car before he left. Get in.”
Louise pushed the seat forward and climbed onto the narrow back seat. She reached for the pot Brooke handed to her, twisted it one direction, then the other, then pushed it back. “Turn it around and give me the top end first to see if we can get it in.”
Grunting her frustration, Brooke took the weight of the pot and turned it around. Louise looked out the back window, eyeing Mirza again. “He’s very exotic-looking, isn’t he? Dark and swarthy. If you like that type. There was a time in college when I was in Turkey—”
“Please, Louise. Tell me your exploits later.” Brooke handed off the pot and turned a 360, surveying the parking lot over the roofs of the cars. No sign of Tony and his tattoos. His green truck was still in the circular loading drive, but the cart was gone. He’d be taking it back to the counter, looking for her aunts now. Brooke’s heartbeat quickened with the countdown toward being discovered.
Louise was taking far too long to settle in with her purchase. She took over wrestling the pot into the back seat. “Slide across and unlock Aunt Peggy’s door. I really want to be out of here before Tony realizes you’ve snuck off.”
Peg waited patiently at the opposite side of the car, carefully folding her long receipt and sliding it into her billfold. “I like Detective Kincaid better. What kind of friend doesn’t even come over to introduce himself to us? Your detective has better manners.”
Louise pushed open the door and debated the point. “She did say she met him in her assertiveness training class. Maybe this Mirza is shy like Brooke. I imagine the two of us can be pretty intimidating if you’re not used to confident women.”
“We are not—”
“Please, ladies!” Brooke chided them with as much force as her hushed voice would allow. “Tony Fierro wants something from me. And I’m ninety-nine percent sure that he’s the one calling and sending me those horrible messages.”
“Horrible?” Peggy frowned with concern. “What messages are you talking about?”
“Has Tony threatened you?”
“Please!”
“Miss Louise? Miss Peggy?” Tony was coming.
Every cell inside Brooke seized up. She heard him speaking to the clerk at the counter, probably asking where her aunts had gone. Think, Brooke. Act. You have to get to Atticus. He’s waiting for you at the bank. And then the adrenaline kicked in and Brooke forgot that she had ever been shy. “Get in the car now. Lock the doors. Hurry.”
“Miss Louise?” Tony’s voice was louder. He was coming this way. “Where’d you go? I’ve got the last of the potted trees loaded in my truck. Miss Peggy…?”
Brooke was vaguely aware of Mirza climbing into his car and driving away. She was completely aware of the man with the designer skin stepping onto the sidewalk. Tony’s gaze followed the path of the departing car. Took note of her aunts inside the VW. Locked onto hers.
“Where are you going, Miss Brooke?”
Screw the pot. Brooke set it on the pavement beside her, shoved her seat back into place and tossed her purse inside.
But a cruel vise of fingers cinched around her upper arm and pulled her out before she could get the door shut. Tony slammed the door and slammed her back even harder against it, pinning her with his hips and thighs while his free hand went to her throat. “Where are you going, bitch!”
“Brooke!”
“Tony! Stop that!”
“Get in her purse, Peggy. Find her cell phone.”
“I’m just picking up my aunts.” Brooke writhed helplessly between the car and his unforgiving grip. Say something more. Make up something. Get out of here! “Peggy has a doctor’s appointment that we forgot about, so I came by to pick her—”
“Shut up!” His grip tightened around her throat, cutting off her words. The brown in his right eye swirled as he stuck his face close enough to hers that she felt his spittle on her chin. While a non-panicked part of her brain noted that he wore contacts, and the darkness of his eyes was as fake as the color of his hair, Brooke felt his rock-hard thigh push its way betw
een hers as he lifted her by the neck. Pinpoints of light danced across her vision, but every sickening physical sensation was perfectly clear. “I thought I could do this the easy way. That I wouldn’t have to hurt any of you.”
“I vote for not hurting!” Louise pounded the inside of the window behind Brooke. “Let go of her! Peggy’s calling the police.”
“And I liked you three bitches.” Brooke sucked in a reviving gulp of air as he released her throat. But it was only to slide his hand down the front of her blouse and curl his fingers beneath the collar. Oh, God.
“Tony!” Louise was shouting again. “We believed in you. We gave you a second chance.”
He ripped the crinkled cotton of Brooke’s blouse. The pearl-white buttons bounced across the pavement as he opened the front of her shirt and traced the chain of her necklace across her sternum and over the swell of her breast. Bile churned in her gut. If his arms were unmarked by tattoos, she could well believe he’d been the man holding that dead, battered woman in the e-mail photograph. She could believe he’d done that to her.
He caught the necklace in his fingers. “Give this to me.”
Brooke nodded. “Just get off me. Please.”
She could hear Peggy on the phone now, and sirens in the distance. Maybe it was a trick of wishful thinking to think her call had already summoned help. Maybe these few seconds pinned against her car really were lasting for the eons they felt like.
“Please.” She wasn’t above begging for her freedom.
Tony rubbed his body against hers with a threatening familiarity before backing off an inch or two to allow her to free her hands to unfasten the chain around her neck. She unhooked the clasp and gathered the chain and charm and key in her palm.
Brooke wasn’t above tricking the SOB, either.
She held out the prize he wanted. Then dropped it to the pavement.
